Old Souls
by ShazzyZhang
Summary: Connor and Murphy MacManus weren't quite human. The last two of their kind, they're forced into living among the humans. Brothers. Twins. And one day, it's proven just how different they really were, even from each other. Sort-of follows events in Movie 1. Trigger warning: suggested character death. Rated T for language, violence and darker themes.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: I really like breaking convention, especially in fandoms where there's so much of the same plots and story lines based on what's canon, and not enough new ideas coming in from outside. I also don't typically do crossovers – I don't normally care for them, but this one was way too good to pass up. _

_I blame tumblr for giving me the original GIF that inspired this fiction, one of Norman Reedus in a denim blue, pinstripe suit and a striped scarf, Connor's famous "Who's the Master?" line, and users TheCockyUndead and Choctopop for pushing me forward with this._

_Usual disclaimers apply._

_Also; I've got real deadlines IRL so I dunno how often I will be updating this one. Sorry in advance for prolonged silence. (Ha ha, that's an awesome pun.)_

_Slainté._

_-Shazzy_

**-Old Souls and Regeneration-**

They'd always known that they were different from everyone else on the planet. Two souls on a little blue sphere of six billion. Two souls, older than anyone would imagine. Two souls that had seen their share of heartbreak and sorrow. Two souls put on the planet to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.

Twins.

Brothers.

Family.

They were as different as night and day, but more similar than anyone would imagine. One was quiet and thoughtful, the other was loud and obnoxious. One, a happy-go-lucky goof, the other more pensive and watchful. One would explode at the slightest provocation, the other would simmer and stew and plan revenge. One was outright sarcastic and mocking as a defence, the other was just cold and aloof. Neither were afraid to speak their minds. Both were endowed with a righteous sense of correctness, of loyalty and faith.

They would fight with each other, with words and fists and would always end up nursing each others' bruises and stitching up split lips or eyebrows without a thought. They never took each others' fists or angry words too seriously, all was forgiven after the first wave of rage and it was always back to business as usual.

They would smoke and drink together; they were _always_ together. Where one went the other was sure to be no more than a few paces behind. They haunted their favourite bar in a haze of smoke and good-natured swearing, cracking jokes at the expense of everyone without prejudice.

They never seemed terribly interested in the women who flocked to them, flirting incessantly, distracting them. They always ended up with phone numbers, but never made the effort to establish a longer connection than the few fleeting moments of a shared drink or cigarette at the bar, and they tended to direct the interested parties into the arms of those they knew otherwise. They had been the reason for many a marriage throughout the city; matchmaking unintentionally for people who passed through their lives at seemingly random intervals.

They were well loved; their friends were fiercely loyal. They would have the protection of an army should they so choose to use it. They cultivated friendships unintentionally, and people clamoured to be on their good sides without ever understanding why. They chose their closest companions carefully, letting only the chosen few see them at their weakest, or see them outside of a public setting. They didn't make social calls, they kept their distance and only shared what needed to be shared.

No one questioned them when they spoke of things beyond the scope of human perception. No one questioned when they mentioned the infinite mass of time and space. No one questioned when they made reference to things that no one else could see. No one asked why they spoke of gods and angels and demons and things from beyond this Earth. They had earned the right to speak fondly of the stars, to be a little more eccentric when they spoke of the wonders of the unknown and the unseen.

It came as little surprise when they were the first to jump to the rescue of the old bartender on Saint Patrick's day. It wasn't a shock when they instigated the fight with the Russians.

And it certainly wasn't a surprise when they came out on top.

The brothers stumbled their way home, less drunk than they'd hoped, instead, full of adrenaline and energy from the fight. Wound up tight enough to continue their drinking and fighting, but smarter then that, deciding that it was a better idea to head home and lick their superficial wounds while they had the few hours of peace that the night would bring.

The illegal loft where they lived was cold. It was always cold in the winter. They were surprised when they'd been able to get electricity into the apartment, and less surprised when they discovered that the heater barely worked on the best of days.

It didn't really matter to them; they rarely stayed in the apartment. It wasn't easy to protect the world when you stayed indoors all the time.

They carried each other as they limped into the loft, one wound up, one still tipsy, both feeling the need for the shoulder of his brother. The door closed behind them, the click of the latch barely registering, and the thought to lock the door lost in the muddle of alcohol and adrenaline that surged through them.

Personal rituals, however, were seen to. The matching rosaries that graced their necks were hung on the nails by the door before the short treks to the sagging mattresses that were their beds were made. Bodies met mattresses with groans of exhaustion and dismay and the brothers gave themselves a moment of silent, inward contemplation before wounds were taken stock of.

"You hurt, Murph?"

The question was met with a grunt from the bed further away from the door as cigarettes were fished from jeans pockets. The click of the Zippo lighter seemed to echo in the silent apartment and the smell of tobacco smoke filled the air.

Murphy stared at his twin, his scruffy, dark hair hanging in his face as he offered Connor a cigarette with his tattooed hand.

Connor shook his head, running a hand through his shorter, spikier hair, but took the cigarette anyway. His brother's stubborn refusal to answer the question meant that he wasn't hurt more than a few bruises, and maybe a split knuckle. Connor stared at the glowing orange tip of his cigarette, before taking a slow drag of it. His insides were churning and his muscles were screaming with the need to go find someone else to fight. He knew his brother was all right; lucky bastard was still half drunk and ready to pass out.

"It's fucking cold in here," Murphy pointed out, pulling his brother from his silent thoughts. "Why the hell are we still here?"

Connor looked up from his contemplation, taken aback by the question. He ran his hand against the stubble on his chin before answering. "Where would you rather we go?"

Murphy shrugged and leaned over, untying his boots with a groan of the 'I've drank too much for this shit' variety. "Anywhere but here."

Connor snorted a laugh and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray between the beds before following suit and standing to take off his jacket and shirt.

"No, I'm serious," Murphy continued, still sitting on his bed, struggling with the knots in his shoelaces, smoke from the cigarette still clamped firmly between his teeth trailing around his head in a hazy halo. "Why the hell do we still bother with this city? It would be nothing for us to go back to Ireland. Or Wales. Or hell, someplace _warm_ for a little while."

"You know as well as I do that we're s'posed to be here. In Boston. For now," Connor replied, tossing his clothes in a heap on the floor.

"You ever think tha' you're wrong about that?" Murphy asked, throwing his clothes over his shoulder as he gave up trying to get his boots off.

"Who's the Master?" Connor asked rhetorically, joking as he pulled his ratty, greying housecoat over his shoulders and flopped back onto his bed.

"Ah, yer so full a' shit," Murphy complained, putting out his cigarette and getting up to turn off the light.

"You're just jealous that I'm always right," Connor retorted.

Murphy muttered incoherent insults under his breath and crawled into his own bed. "It's still fucking freezing in here."

"You wanna push the mattresses together or somethin'?" Connor asked, stifling a yawn.

"What are you, five?" Murphy shot back bitterly from the other bed.

Connor smirked in the dark and rolled over onto his back as he heard his brother fidgeting under the thin blankets of his bed. They'd shared a bed for longer than either cared to admit, and more often than they could count in the recent winters in Boston. It seemed natural for them, it didn't matter. They were twins, they'd shared the same womb for nine months and hadn't been separated for longer than it took for one to take a piss at the pub while the other smoked and drank and kept watch over the others' drink.

"You could put yer clothes back on?" Connor suggested, grinning widely as he teased his brother for whining. "I mean, it's no' like anyone is forcin' you t' sleep in yer boxers."

"Fuckin' shut it." Murphy growled back, his voice muffled by what Connor assumed was either his pillow or the blankets pulled up on his face.

Connor had chosen to sleep with his housecoat on, it was cold in the apartment, after all, but he preferred not to sleep in his jeans if he could avoid it. He smirked at his brother's expense, whiny bastard that he was and pulled the ratty quilt from his bed, keeping his thinner woollen blanket for himself, and tossed it at Murphy. "There, quit yer whinin'."

"You're my fuckin' Messiah," Murphy said, by way of thanks as he pulled the thin quilt around himself, shuffling in his bed to get comfortable, eventually settling curled up in a ball on his side, facing Connor's bed, and ultimately, the door.

Connor pulled the thin blanket he'd kept for himself up over his bare chest, draping it easily over himself as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The sounds of the city were far enough away thanks to acoustics of the alley and the illegal loft, that they made a comfortable hum in the night.

The brothers fell into silence, Murphy's sniffles against the cold breaking the rhythm of his breathing every now and again.

Connor smiled to himself. "I can hear your heart beating, Murph," He mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Connor nodded, "like a drum, steady and strong, and it gets slower when you're almost asleep."

Murphy grew very silent in his bed.

"You can't hear mine, can you?" Connor asked, his voice quiet in the dark, the hurt of the realization breaking the edges of his words.

"Shh," Murphy shot back.

Connor didn't mention it again, and Murphy fell asleep too quickly for him to lie to his brother to spare him his feelings.

Connor didn't sleep much that night, too on edge from the fight, and too obsessed with the rhythm of his brother's heart beating away in the dark, pounding in his ears, letting him know that his beloved brother was alive.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Augh, my heart. So painful to write but trust me, it's worth it. _

_-Shazzy_

**-A Split Second Too Late-**

Dawn broke over the city, cool and bright. The brothers sat facing one another, Murphy cradling his head in his hands. He was hungover, staring at his boots. Connor was exhausted and pulled his boots on to stave off the chill of the concrete floor.

"You okay, Conn?" Murphy asked as he pulled his housecoat over his shoulders

Connor nodded. "Couldnae sleep," He muttered. "Too much noise in my head."

Murphy grunted in reply and rubbed his eyes as he hunched over. "Thanks fer th' blanket."

Connor grinned for a moment and nodded. "Pussy."

Murphy grabbed the quilt in question and tossed it as his brother with a groan. Connor shoved it aside and ran a tired hand over his face, wordlessly.

They weren't expecting the door to be kicked open.

"_Freeze! You fucking Irish faggots!"_

They were on their feet in a heartbeat as they were grabbed by the Russian intruders. They didn't have time to react as they were grabbed, minds not focusing, still hungover, still in shock at the intrusion. No one knew where they lived, how had the Russians found them?

"Conn!" Murphy shouted weakly, as he watched his brother get hit in the head with the butt of the huge bald Russian's gun, unable to get away from where he was being held at gunpoint.

Connor was on his knees, head pounding as blood dripped from the wound the Russian had given him.

"Murph!" Connor shouted back over the angry yelling in Russian. He felt his feet skid across the floor as the bigger man dragged him towards what constituted the bathroom.

"Cuff yourself!" He heard the Russian shout.

Connor felt the cold metal of the handcuff slip around his wrist and it tok him a moment before he realised what was happening.

"Cuff yourself! Around the back!"

Connor moved slowly, disoriented and dizzy from the blow to his head. He tried to keep the cuff loose enough so that he could slip out of it, but the Russian was smart and double-checked, tightening the metal band around his wrist.

Connor felt the hand at the base of his neck, thick fingers wrapped in the thin fabric of his housecoat, the Russian shaking him in his rage. He could smell alcohol and sweat and anger on the man behind him. He could see the barrel of the gun just out of the corner of his eye. He felt the huge man behind him lean in close and, for just a second, he was afraid that this was going to turn into the pawn shop scene from _Pulp Fiction_.

"You know why I come here?" The Russian growled in Connor's ear. "I come here, to kill you. But now?"

Connor felt his heart stop, in the split second where the Russian hesitated, fear filling his entire being.

"Now, I kill your _brother_. Shoot him in the head."

Connor blinked as relief flooded through him and rage started to fill him.

"Connor!"

Murphy's shout as he was dragged away by the Russians jarred Connor to the core. His brother was being dragged way to die, and he was handcuffed tot he fucking toilet.

"MURPH!" He screamed back.

"It was just a bar fight, you guys are fuckin' pussies!" Murphy shouted at the Russians as he was led away.

Murphy cast one look over his shoulder, his eyes locking with Connor's. There was no fear in his face. Only a serene calm, a silent reassurance that everything would be all right.

Connor screamed wordlessly as his brother was led out of the apartment. He wasted no time in moving, as soon as the Russians were out of sight. He slammed himself against the porcelain of the toilet, pulling on his handcuffs, screaming.

The veins on his arms popped, standing out against his skin. His face turned red with exertion as he screamed wordlessly, desperate to get out of his shackles and free himself. He slammed his shoulder against the tank, pulling, wobbling the toilet from its place on the floor, shaking it, desperate to pull it from the rotting floorboards.

"MURPH!" He shouted again, as though his brother could hear.

He pulled, cutting his wrists, blood running down from the wounds, dripping across his fingers and onto the floor. He pulled, despite the pain, despite the futility of it all. His brother was in trouble.

_His brother was in trouble._

He didn't notice the pain, didn't notice the blood, he pulled, rocking the heavy toilet against itself, desperate to pull it from the floor. He knew he didn't have long. He needed to get up, to get out to save his brother...

He heard the gunshot and his heart stopped.

He slipped, dropping to his knees and nearly cracking his head against the toilet.

One shot meant nothing. One shot meant that there was still a chance; they hadn't needed to use their powers for a long time, but that was okay. A single shot didn't mean anything for sure.

His chest filled with cold dread when the second gunshot rang out loud and clear in the apartment.

Connor slumped forward, breathing heavily. He felt like he was going to throw up.

_At least I'm in the right fucking place_. He thought.

No.

Nononononononononono...

He screamed again and pulled one last time at his chains, managing to finally pull the toilet free from the floor. He tipped it over, hands still cuffed together, but free from the weight of the porcelain. To hell with everything else, he rushed out of the loft and took the stairs, two at a time, rushing to the alley and praying harder than he'd ever prayed in his life.

He skidded to a halt, dizzy, out of breath, reeling from panic and blood loss.

The alley was empty.

No bodies.

No Murphy.

Just blood.

Connor felt his knees buckle as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Fuck!" He shouted to no one, doubling over as he knelt in the cold, on the asphalt of the alley. He couldn't breathe, his chest tightened and he wept, bleeding and in pain, mourning his brother.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, sobbing in the alley, but a chill forced him to get up. His head was pounding, a steady rhythm in his temples. He stumbled back to the loft, his eyes unseeing as he moved mechanically around the room. He pulled on his clothes, manoeuvring himself awkwardly as he was still handcuffed. He flipped the chain over his back, letting it rest against his bare skin like a child's string for mittens, slipping his t shirt on over top, followed by his pea coat. He was still bleeding from his wrists and he didn't care. He picked his rosary from the wall and slipped it over his head, letting the familiar weight of the wooden beads settle against his chest.

His eyes fell on his brother's rosary and for just a moment, he swore that he could hear his brother's heartbeat in his ears. He turned around, half expecting to see Murphy standing there behind him, his stupid happy go lucky smirk on his lips, but he wasn't there.

Murphy was gone.

They'd made sure he wouldn't be able to regenerate.

Connor was the last MacManus.

And he wasn't about to let his brother's death go unpunished.


End file.
